What Would I Do Without You?
by Keira-House M.D
Summary: Victoria falls dangerously ill, leaving Melbourne skirting the edge of sanity as he contemplates a life without her. Victoria/Melbourne


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria.**

* * *

There are no warning signs.

The queen is absolutely fine at dinner, with as good an appetite as ever as she charms and talks and laughs.

The next morning she cannot get out of bed.

Her arms and legs will not work properly and she has a bone-deep fatigue that will not go away.

She tries to fight it, attempts valiantly to manoeuvre herself out of her bed, but she just cannot do it.

She insists on having her work brought to her, demands that Melbourne be admitted into her bedchamber so that they can work on her papers together.

Baroness Lehzen argues, the doctor argues, even Melbourne himself (worrying for her reputation and her health) argues.

But the queen overrules them all and she commands. They cannot go against her.

She holds her pen well enough for the first few hours and Melbourne finds that if he reads the papers out to her (so she does not need to strain her tired eyes) and explains any confusing points as he goes then she is happy and able to sign when needed.

Her body might currently be feeble but for the moment her mind is agile enough.

Melbourne refuses to stay for lunch, though, insisting that the queen rests but promising, at her request, to come again during the evening.

Weak though she is he is sure it must just be fatigue. She will be better after some rest, he thinks.

He hopes.

* * *

When he returns she is far worse.

They do not want to let him in to see her but she makes them. Despite her illness she perceives his arrival and insists he is allowed into her room.

Even ill she is still in full possession of the regal dignity he has always so admired in her.

He passes her mother, who has been refused entry. The duchess glares but Melbourne finds he does not care.

He is only concerned for the queen.

There is sweat dripping from her brow. Her face is pale and her hands are shaking but she still reaches out to him.

He kneels at her bedside and presses his lips against her offered hand, "Your Majesty."

"You look so worried … dear Lord M," she says in a small, stuttering voice, "I … am sure … sure I will be better soon. You know that I am usually in excellent health."

He smiles, though the expression is strained, "of course, Ma'am."

"You must not … must not … do not let uncle Cumberland come back."

"Quite right, Ma'am," he says in what tries to be a cheerful tone but does not really manage, "but I am certain you will be up on your feet again soon."

She smiles softly at him, "always so much faith … never had anyone … anyone who believes in me … quite … quite as much as you do."

Her eyes flutter and her head droops. She is asleep in moments.

He looks down at her. How tiny she seems – her dignity and regal poise usually makes him forget how physically small she is but now it cannot be disguised. She is almost doll-like with her pale skin and stillness.

It is eerie and he does not like it. Not at all.

He turns away towards the doctors huddled together in the corner of the room.

When he walks towards them their chatter ceases but he fixes them with a hard glare, channels all the weight of his Prime Ministerial power into his gaze and asks them for their diagnosis.

Unknown, they say. Could be one of a dozen things. Really cannot be sure.

He gives them a look, one that orders them to try harder. He will not have the queen endangered by inferior doctors.

They nod, understanding his unspoken message. Everyone knows that Lord Melbourne is close to the queen and the doctors can tell, even after only a short time, that should something happen to the queen under their watch, they will face none of the Prime Minister's usual geniality and desire to keep the peace, but will instead be faced with the wrath of a man for whom the queen is everything.

Melbourne turns from them and moves towards the door. He does not look back – he cannot bear to see her like this, lying there like she is … like she is dead.

* * *

Days pass.

King Leopold writes to his nephews to postpone their visit and goes around looking very grave – some of his sadness is undoubtedly due to the fact that the match he has planned between the queen and Prince Albert for almost two decades will not take place if the queen does not survive, but Melbourne gives him enough credit to know he does truly care for his niece.

The Duchess of Kent weeps and wails and makes an awful fuss without actually doing anything of use. Melbourne forgives her for that – he knows she loves her daughter despite previous behaviour.

Baroness Lehzen does not leave the queen's rooms. She looks nearly as ragged and worn down as her mistress but she never stops, never rests.

Melbourne goes to the House to try and keep order. News of the queen's illness filters out and panic rises – no one wants the Duke of Cumberland anywhere near the throne after all. When he is not at the House, or drowning his worries at Dover House with too much brandy, Melbourne is at Buckingham Palace watching as the queen's condition deteriorates.

She has her lucid periods and it breaks his heart that she uses them to try and reassure him and Baroness Lehzen and even her mother. Or she asks after Dash, who curls up on her bed and barks at everyone but Melbourne if they get too close to the queen.

When she is not lucid it is even worse. She tosses and turns, unable to sleep restfully, and cries out because of nightmares she never remembers but which make her scream in her sleep.

And the doctors still have no clue. They spend a while convinced they have found an answer to what the queen is suffering from, only for a new symptom to prove them wrong a few hours later.

They become quite terrified of him, the queen's doctors. Every time he visits he asks for their prognosis. Every time they cannot give him a satisfactory answer his looks grow darker. He is not known for this sort of temper but when it comes to the queen's health and safety all his good nature is forgotten.

In the back of his mind he knows it is wrong to take out his worry on them, but they are supposed to help the queen, not stand around looking grave, running countless tests and still knowing nothing for certain.

One set of doctors fails and he asks for others. He will call every doctor in the country (in the world) if he has to.

* * *

"You will take care of Dashy if … if anything happens?" she asks him, a week into her illness.

His eyes fill with tears at her words. They seem to be doing that a lot recently.

"You will be fine, Ma'am," he tells her.

"Please," she says, "you are the only one Dash likes apart from me, even if you _do_ like to say he has crooked legs."

Her laugh turns into a cough and the slight smile in the corner of his mouth disappears.

It should not be like this. Illness should be for someone like him, not this young, healthy woman usually so brimming with life.

She takes his hand and his heart bursts at the contact, especially as he can see in the strain on her face the effort that small movement has cost her.

"You look tired, Lord M … perhaps … perhaps you should rest … rest more."

"I am fine, Ma'am," he insists, "my only concern is you."

She smiles, and lifts her hand slowly to touch his face.

Impulsively he grips it before it drops to her side, presses a kiss to her palm.

There is no one else in the room to see their intimacy (the doctors are conferring in the next room and Baroness Lehzen has stepped outside for the duration of his visit at the queen's request) but even if there was he thinks it would not stop him from expressing his affection for her, not as she lies there so ill.

He does not want to lose her. He isn't sure his heart will survive that.

"You should be sleeping again," he tells her, "the doctors say you stay awake too much."

"I do not enjoy being helpless," she tells him, still regal and defiant despite her pale, thin appearance, "and I so wish to be active."

"Please, Ma'am, you must keep your strength up."

She sighs but nods, "you will come later though?"

"Of course," he replies, "of course I will, Ma'am."

* * *

He goes to church.

He has barely attended a service in the past few years but for her he will go.

It is his queen he puts his faith in but he does believe in God, though he may not speak to Him often.

He prays for her, spends a whole afternoon kneeling and murmuring pleas to God for Him to just save her.

He thinks he will do anything if she will only live.

* * *

"Will you tell me a story?" she asks on one of her good days, a day where for a few hours she is awake and alert.

"What kind of story, Ma'am?"

"Tell me about you, Lord M," she says, "your family … childhood … something … something happy."

So he does. He speaks for almost two hours, regaling her with tales of his university antics and the adventures he and his siblings had when they were young.

Despite her illness and exhaustion she listens closely to every word, never bored and never dropping off to sleep.

It is a bright spot during a terrible time.

* * *

Emma finds him drinking his third glass of brandy one evening after he has returned from a visit to the queen.

She had not opened her eyes at all during his half hour stay, had only mumbled random words during her uneasy sleep while the doctors frantically tried to get her spiking temperature down.

"You need to eat, William," Emma tells him, "you do not look at all well."

He looks up at her, dark circles under his eyes. He doesn't want food, only enough alcohol to stop him from thinking about the queen, feverish and suffering.

Emma sighs, "maybe … maybe you should not come tomorrow William. The doctors are doing what they can but it does not help you to see her like this."

"No," he tells her, "I have to be there if she needs anything. The doctors are useless and the baroness is running herself absolutely ragged and the duchess isn't helping at all. I just have to go and make sure she is … that she is not …"

He trails off but Emma knows what he means. William has always had such a capacity for love and it is quite clear to her how much he adores the queen. It might be inappropriate and dangerous and a terrible idea but she knows it is real. He is her friend and she only wants to help him.

"You are of no use to the queen if you make yourself ill, William."

He stands suddenly, shakes with all the emotions coursing through him, "I'm of no use now, Emma. I cannot do anything to help her. In this situation there is no advice or support I can give … I can only watch as she grows weaker every day."

"You being there is enough," Emma insists, "you must know how much it means to her to have you visit. And the queen is strong, William, you know that, strong partly thanks to you, because you never deserted her and you always believed. But you must not neglect yourself, she would not want that."

He knows his old friend is right, remembers how the queen has, in her more alert hours, told him that he must rest more.

But she never leaves his thoughts, he never stops worrying.

He sighs, "I will try, but Emma you know that I can only do so much."

She looks at him knowingly, because she of all the royal household knows the feelings that the queen and Prime Minister share, "I know, William, but please, just try."

* * *

Sometimes the queen asks about parliament and her boxes.

She cannot lift a pen, cannot keep her eyes open long enough to read a single sheet of paper, and the constant fevers and exhaustion mean she can scarcely keep pertinent names and dates straight in her head … but she asks for updates all the same.

She cares about the country and she is always conscious, even during her illness, of the duties of a monarch.

Melbourne and the doctors refuse to allow her to try and struggle through the papers but he gives the queen short and concise updates on various points of interest like their victory in Kabul and the dispatches from Afghanistan. He is careful to keep such offers of information short, simple and cheerful, never speaking on the unrest within England or of the Duke of Cumberland's status as heir if something should happen to her.

He admires her spirit and her determination – to try and continue her role even when she is so incapacitated is admirable indeed.

He truly and sincerely hopes none of them have to suffer her loss.

* * *

She has been ill for three weeks now.

Civil disturbances have increased. This sort of thing always disrupts people and it is an especial shock given how young the queen is, and how healthy she seemed before.

Melbourne knows he ought to be at the House more, using his famous talent for keeping the status quo and preventing rioting. But how can he do that when his mind is always with the queen?

Instead he delegates and stalls and sits for hours by the queen's bedside – trying to be cheerful when she is aware and lucid, pestering the doctors for news, and offering bargains in his head to God ( _take me_ , he begs, _not her, never her_ ).

They tell him the Duke of Cumberland has left Hanover. It seems like the news they have tried so hard to keep from the queen's despised heir has finally reached his ears.

Melbourne writes a dozen letters to various contacts abroad, instructing them to do whatever they can to keep Cumberland out of England for as long as they possibly can.

If Cumberland arrives he is sure to push for a regency, to claim the queen's extended illness means that even if ( _when_ , Melbourne tells himself) she recovers she will not be capable of ruling immediately.

So Melbourne tries to stop his arrival. If he just gives her time he is sure the queen will improve.

His heart will not let him contemplate the alternative.

* * *

"Where is Melbourne?" Sir Robert Peel asks the Duke of Wellington one day, "riots in the street, the Duke of Cumberland said to be returning, and he does not even come to the House."

Wellington gives Peel a look, "he is with the queen."

"What good will that do?" asks Peel, "the queen is in no state to help anyone at the moment."

"The only reason Melbourne has stayed on as Prime Minister," Wellington explains, "is because of the queen. Politics are the last thing on his mind right now."

"But they say he has been in her bedchamber every day since she fell ill," Peel says, "surely that is not something to be condoned."

"I would like to see you try and stop him," Wellington lets out a short bark of laughter, "I wager he would have the best of it."

"You do not think there is any truth to the rumours, do you?" asks Peel after a moment, "about Lord Melbourne and the queen?"

"The more lurid ones, of course not – Melbourne is far too noble to do anything like that with the queen … But as for the rest – you have eyes, Sir Robert, and you are no fool."

Peel thinks of stolen glances and the way the queen and her Prime Minister orbit each other whenever they are together, of inside jokes and intimate conversations.

He thinks of Melbourne's haggard face during his rare trips to the House these past few weeks, of the reports that he has spent hours praying in church, a place he usually avoids.

It suddenly dawns on him. If, God forbid, they lose the queen, then they will lose Melbourne too. And the thought does disturb Peel – they might be very different men with very different views but he does truly respect Melbourne.

Wellington nods at the comprehension on Peel's face, "yes, you see it now. I can tell. Let us hope for the best. The queen is strong after all and I'll wager she will get through this – she has a fighting spirit any soldier or general would be proud of."

* * *

For a few days the queen is quite insensible, drifting between deep sleep and a feverish tossing and turning during which she appears to recognise no one.

Melbourne finds it difficult to watch this, can only stay with her for a few minutes at a time before her eyes, locked on him but unseeing, distress him enough that he has to leave.

In these days he spends most of his time at the House, attempting to make up for his absences during the earlier weeks of the queen's illness, and throwing himself wholeheartedly into ensuring that when (always when, never if) the queen is better she will have a stable country to return to ruling.

He is fierce in this time, far more decisive than usual and working all hours to achieve his aims and supress even the hint of plans for a regency.

Some say it is then that he is at his most dynamic politically. But if that is true then it is also certainly a disastrous time for him personally – he has a permanently harrowed look on his normally genial face, always exits the queen's rooms with damp cheeks and shining eyes, and his friends and allies worry that he is neither sleeping nor eating as he should.

He is, most agree, skirting the edge of sanity.

No one ever mentions in his hearing the possibility of an unhappy ending for the queen. No one is that foolish.

* * *

One morning he tries to think rationally about the current situation.

Ever since the queen fell ill he has done his best to think of it as only a temporary thing. She is so strong, he thinks, that surely she will not be beaten by this?

But it has been four weeks and there are currently no signs of improvement. Even the strongest people can be struck down by illness, even the most beloved can be taken from their friends and family.

This is something he cannot help her with.

He has often had to be the realistic one out of the pair he and the queen make up, has had to remind her of the limits of her power, the importance of appearances, the duties she must bear.

But now he does not wish to look at reality. For if he does so he only sees that every day without progress means an ever dwindling chance of the queen's recovery.

And what would he do without her?

Politics tires him now except when he has her as an enthusiastic pupil. No friendship is as sweet as hers, no conversation as charming.

She has brought him back to life. If he loses her now then his world will be one of darkness and despair.

It is a horrific thing to contemplate.

And that is only the personal loss he would sustain. The country itself would tremble at the thought of being ruled by Cumberland. His beloved parliament would surely suffer, for everyone knows Cumberland would, if he could, go back to an absolute rather than constitutional monarchy.

England does not deserve to lose a queen that, while young and prone to mistakes, also has great heart and determination and love for her country.

And as for himself … he does not think he can bear such a thing.

* * *

He sleeps badly, his mind always active with worry for the queen, never wanting to fall into a completely deep sleep just in case he needs to be roused with any urgent news.

And his dreams are filled with her face. Sometimes, rarely, it is a good dream, where she smiles and he can hear her silvery laugh. But all too often now it is nightmares filled with screaming and crying and cold stillness that plague him.

He sees such images in his waking hours too, when he closes his eyes for just a moment.

Sometimes even when he visits her. Her sees her asleep and imagines for a moment that she is completely still rather than just barely moving. And then he has to move closer just so he can hear her faint, laboured breathing and be reassured that his earlier vision was just a cruel trick of his mind.

Sometimes he thinks he might be going mad. Or it could be that he is already halfway there.

One thing is certain in his mind, though – if the queen does not make it then he thinks it might be kinder for him to lose his sanity.

* * *

He sits by her bedside and holds her hand.

If he were anyone else he thinks Baroness Lehzen would not have even considered allowing him to be alone with the queen while she was unconscious.

But jealous as she may be of the time he spends with the queen, and of their closeness, Melbourne knows that she trusts him now. Perhaps she did not at first – he remembers the queen once joking about her old governess' warnings about him – but she appears to believe that he has proved himself enough.

It is possibly taking advantage of the baroness' generosity to hold the queen's hand while she is asleep, but he craves the comfort of that contact with her and he is sure the queen would not mind.

He just likes to feel her pulse, to know that no matter how pale and ill she looks her heart is still beating on.

She seems almost peaceful now. Emma has told him that she had a very disturbed night, screaming herself hoarse because of nightmares and hallucinations. He is glad that he does not have to witness such a thing and he has a new respect for Baroness Lehzen for continuing to stay no matter how delirious her beloved charge might become.

Melbourne has always found it hard to watch things that upset him. And the queen in pain is certainly a horrific thing to him.

The quiet is getting to him, though. Whenever he and the queen are together in usual circumstances they are generally talking and laughing, but now the only sound is the queen's barely audible breathing and his own heavier sighs.

So he begins to talk. He is sure she cannot hear but he feels he must say something. He talks of flowers and Brocket Hall and funny stories from his youth – nothing heavy for he is distressed enough as it is.

Somehow old stories turn to newer ones as he relates his own view on their recent interactions – humorous episodes during court events or their rides or their time working on her boxes.

Then to that day everything between them came to a head. That day that fills him with such a mix of emotion he can scarcely bear it.

"When I think of that day at Brocket Hall," he muses, "oh how my heart soared at your words. But of course I did not – could not – show it. I regret that now, being the cause of your tears, no matter how well-meaning I was."

He sighs, "I admit to a rather disreputable youth, Ma'am, as you have doubtless heard, but I have tried to do my best as your Prime Minister. You are, I think, the one truly good thing in my life – how could I ruin you by tainting your name with mine, no matter how much joy such a union might bring me?"

His thumb rubs circles over the smooth skin of her hand as he finds himself spilling out his inner thoughts.

It is cathartic in a way, to confess to the queen without the worry of her actually comprehending him.

"I loved Caro passionately," he says, "but of course it nearly destroyed me. She was an extraordinary woman but not made, I think, for marriage. I never thought I would love again, though – despite the pain she caused me I was sure I could never experience anything close to what I had felt for her. You surprised me, Ma'am … I chose to be your friend but what came after was not a choice at all – I could not have stopped myself from falling in love with you even if I had wanted to."

He laughs then, even as tears begin to fall.

"So there is the truth, Ma'am, though of course you probably have no idea that I am even here. But I had to say it … just in case."

He squeezes her hand gently and despite the dire circumstances and the ever mounting possibility that the queen will never get well he finds that for the first time in weeks, now that he has made his confession, he feels unburdened.

Emboldened by his lightened heart he allows himself to smooth the queen's damp locks away from her face, allows his fingers to linger briefly and trace the lines of her face.

"Victoria," he murmurs, "oh dearest, darling Victoria."

He says no more, lest the tears well up once more. Instead he leaves the room with only a nod to Baroness Lehzen as he exits. He does not look at the doctors – he does not want their inevitable news of either _no progress_ or the grave looks that he of course refuses to think on.

It feels now like a turning point, but he has no idea of the direction they are heading towards.

Life or death. Celebration or grief.

He thinks they will know soon enough.

* * *

It happens when the doctors begin to fear that there is no hope, though of course they do not dare to say so out loud.

Melbourne visits the queen, planning to stay only a few minutes. His time with her the night before, his confession whispered into her ears as she lay there not knowing him, has drained him.

But he finds her lucid for the first time in far too long.

Tired and weak she may be but she sits propped up against a pile of pillows, her eyes showing recognition and a smile blooming on her face as he walks in.

He does not think he has ever seen anything so beautiful.

"Lord M," she says his name like there is no one in the world more important to her.

(she does not think there is).

He rushes forward, forgoes the usual formality in his euphoria at hearing her speak and seeing that she recognises him.

He kneels by her bedside and his eyes fill with tears as he presses a reverent kiss to her hand.

"I feel I have not been myself," she tells him quietly once he has found a chair and sits close to her bedside, "how long has it been since we dined together? I can scarcely remember what has happened since but … I feel it has been quite some time."

"Near enough a month, Ma'am," he explains, "it came on so quickly and you have not … have not often been in a position to note the passage of time."

"Yes," she agrees, "it has all been so strange. But it feels now as if I have woken from a long dream."

He tries to quash the hope. He does not want to believe that she has suddenly rallied and beaten whatever has been ravaging her body and mind, only to have her worsen once more.

"I do not remember much, as I said," she continues, "but Lord M, I remember you. By my side so often, telling me that I would be well, promising to keep uncle Cumberland away, making me laugh when I was awake, holding my hand … praying to God. Most of the little I recall is of you, ever my faithful companion."

She pauses to gaze at him and she seems to look into his soul, his very heart.

She smiles.

"And then when you last came, at least I think it was then, you were crying and pleading and you said … oh Lord M you must say it yourself!"

He knows what she speaks of. It was just yesterday after all.

He was in such deep despair then that he just felt he had to say it – he had fully believed that she was totally unaware, but if something had happened without him letting her know his true feelings (even if she did not quite comprehend his words in her dazed state) he knows he never would forgive himself.

But to say it now … can he really do it? It was easier when she was asleep, when he could speak his mind without having to consider the reality of what it might mean for her to accept him.

She sees his hesitation and her face falls.

He cannot bear it, her pained expression. And he suddenly knows he must speak – these weeks with her so ill have confirmed to him that life is dark without her, that she brings him to life and makes him happier than he ever thought he could be.

He has come so close to losing her. How can he now let his own scruples stop him from being honest – no matter what happens now does she not deserve that much?

He takes a breath and speaks.

"Ma'am … Victoria … from the moment I met you my life has been better and you have reminded me of what it is to truly live. I love you, Ma'am, more than is probably rational or wise. That is my confession, my truth to you."

There is a pause, a moment where they lock eyes.

Then she replies.

"I love you too."

He goes to protest her bold admission but she cuts him off before he can even begin, "you will not change my mind, Lord M – my heart is quite decided. I know that you do not think yourself worthy, that you do not want to make things difficult for me. But Lord M you are everything to me – you brought me back from the brink, I am sure of it, with your comfort and constant care and those words whispered in my ear. You gave me strength then as you always have ever since we first met."

She reaches out then and so does he. Their hands tangle together easily, as if they fit together perfectly. There has always been such an ease between them, as if it were just right.

Reservation and fear are chased away by her touch and her smile and her presence.

She is everything to him, this wonderful young queen, this woman he constantly marvels at.

Maybe he could have kept himself aloof once, could have backed away and allowed more suitable candidates for her hand to step forward and possibly win her heart.

He cannot do that now, though. How close he came to being forever parted from her has reminded him of how precious their connection is, of how much it would hurt if he were to lose it.

Can he be so selfish? And is it really selfishness if it is what the queen wants too, if his refusal will hurt her and leave her with less support?

He just wants her to be happy. That is all he has ever wanted.

She looks at him with eyes far wiser than her years. She may be naïve in some ways but she has a deep intelligence in other matters.

"What can be wrong in this, Lord M? Can something that feels so right and proper be a mistake?"

He thinks that sometimes it can. Unreserved pleasure can certainly be a bad thing, he knows that well enough.

Yet what is between them does not just bring happiness, it also brings stability and support and strength and empowerment to them both. Perhaps in this case the queen is right.

Because maybe he has a chequered past; maybe he is a mere viscount while she is a queen; maybe he is decades older than her; maybe he is her Prime Minister – there are so many objections he cannot count them all … but maybe he believes in her unwaveringly and gives her the strength to believe in herself; maybe she makes his smiles genuine; maybe he teaches her all about the government she was never given the chance to study; maybe she reminds him of the joy he once found in politics.

Maybe they are exactly what each other needs despite the scandal of it all.

And maybe the events of these past few weeks, how close the queen has come to death, have reminded them both of all this.

He moves forward, tentative and careful.

"May I?" he asks.

She knows what he is asking. She does not speak but only nods her assent.

He closes the distance between them and slants his lips across hers.

What starts as a gentle kiss becomes more urgent as he comprehends what is happening and enjoys the new, delightful sensations that kissing her brings.

It is her, the woman he loves and adores, dearest Victoria who he has come so close to being forever parted from.

His hands let go of hers. One slides up her arm and the other cups her cheek. The closeness delights him.

He senses her own hands floundering in her lap for a moment – this is a new experience for her and she is rather unsure – but she is a quick learner in this as she has been in the business she has to deal with as queen and soon her hands are tangled in the curls at the back of his head, pulling him closer towards her.

He almost laughs and he feels her lips quirk upwards into a smile even as she presses them against his.

What a feeling! What felicity it is to kiss her.

He parts from her for only a moment, moves back just so he can gaze at that face he sees so often in his dreams. Her blue eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed, and her smile is delighted. Never has she looked so captivating or exquisite.

A warmth fills him as he looks upon her and then they move together, back towards each other to kiss once again and revel in this proper realisation of a love so long held by both of them.

He does not think he has ever felt so ecstatic. She is alive and well, and she loves him, and they are together.

It is perfect.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.**


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